


teach me how to say goodbye

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies) RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: This is a good thing.It is.





	teach me how to say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scandalmuss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scandalmuss/gifts).



> To Muss, for being encouraging, for never giving up, for being a good friend <3
> 
> I meant to post this...a year ago. After Comic Con. Whoops.

_They meet at Colin’s home this time, and Taron furtively glances over his shoulder as he rings the doorbell._

_Taron always feels awkward about slipping into Colin’s neighborhood, even though the neighbors aren’t there half the time. There have been no photos, no posts on Twitter, nothing. And by all rights, he’s allowed—even invited—here._

_To the outside world, they’re close friends. Only they know the difference._

_Colin answers the door, but his smile seems a bit strained. He’s wearing a button-down and pressed trousers, glasses slightly askew._

_“Is this a bad time?”_

_“No, Taron,” Colin says, but there’s something funny about his tone, the darting eyes even after he’s closed the door. “Please, sit wherever you want. I’ll put the tea on.”_

_Taron mutely nods, heading for the couch. For some reason, he’s caught off guard, ticking down the list of things he’s noticed in a span of five minutes: Colin’s fidgety nature, the tea not being ready, the house being perfectly silent. Colin likes to play some light music to fill in the silence, only turning it off when they pop in a movie._

_“Need any help back there?” Taron asks awkwardly. He reaches for his phone in his back jean’s pocket, then retreats._

_“I’m all right,” Colin calls from the kitchen. “Digestives all right with you? Jaffa Cakes? Or something more substantial?”_

_Taron blinks. “Uh…anything is fine.” Then, after a few more minutes without a reply, asks, “How’s Livia?”_

_“Livia is well,” Colin says. He still hasn’t come back from the other room. “Caught up another EcoAge project, but she loves what she does, though she does miss spending time with the kids.”_

_The kids. Right._

_“And how are they?”_

_“Luca and Matteo are also doing well.” There’s a clatter of the mugs being moved onto the counter, then the tin full of tea bags. “Luca’s been practicing his guitar.”_

_“I used to play,” Taron says. “I think I still remember it. I can—“ And he closes his mouth. What? Give him pointers? He hasn’t touched one in years; Luca’s probably surpassed him. And him, being around Colin’s son when… “I can maybe play a few songs,” he quickly finishes. “But really, I think my talents lie more in singing. I might be in a musical. A kid’s movie,” Taron corrects, “but it seems fun.” He’s on the verge of suggesting Colin go check it out, but can’t see him actually going to a film about singing animals. And his sons are too old for it, aren’t they? So, no excuse there._

_“It should be.”_

_“Yeah, and we’ll see each other again, you know,” Taron says, “for Kingsman.”_

_“Yes. Yes.”_

_Taron keeps babbling, trying to outdistance the cloying silence: “And you know, I think Matthew’s freaking out the fans. You did get shot in the head, after all, but you should read the theories people are coming up with. Evil twin, robot, ghost, bulletproof glasses, all that. And I’ve been talking to some of the new cast, Channing and Pedro seem cool; it’ll be—“_

_“Taron.” Colin says, coming out with a tray of tea and assorted biscuits. He places it in front of Taron on the coffee table, looking very serious. “We need to talk.”_

It’s only a few days after Comic Con when Colin calls.

Taron sees the Skype app on his laptop popping up onscreen, just to the right where he’s idly scrolling through Twitter, checking up on reactions to the panel and the interviews. Years later, he’s finally had the sense not to Google his name, but it’s hard to try to keep himself in the dark when people tag or include him in hashtags.

He almost misses clicking the ANSWER icon in the middle of replying to Channing’s _Bet I can crush you in Let’s Dance._

“Hey,” Taron says, turning his eyes to back to his phone as a series of messages pop up in rapid speed, all from Pedro, as chatty as he is in person.

“Taron,” Colin says, and Taron’s trying to decipher whether his neutral tone is simple politeness or hiding his annoyance for Taron checking his phone. “I just wanted to ask if you got the list of press tours scheduled for the next few months.”

“Yeah, I did,” Taron says.

“Good, can you send them to me? I’m afraid I didn’t receive them, and I don’t want to bother Matthew.”

“Can’t believe he’s still editing,” Taron comments, before pulling up his email and forwarding the message to Colin, then adds his two cents to the text conversation. “Sent.”

“Thank you,” Colin says.

“Yeah, no problem.”

The quiet stretches out. Taron adds an emoji to the chat.

“Yes,” Colin says, after a good three minutes have passed. “So, how are you?”

“Good,” Taron replies. “You?”

“Good.” Then, “what have you been up to?”

“Just relaxing from Comic Con. Catching up on some sleep.” Taron shrugs, glancing down at the new message that’s popped up and trying to not laugh at Pedro posing dramatically, one hand on his hip, the other reaching for the sky, cowboy hat tilted so it hides half of his face. Channing’s already replied, _I wore it better_ , with Halle following with _Boys, boys, you both look dashing_. “Talking in the group chat.”

“The group chat?”

“Yeah, on WhatsApp.” _You know, the one you’re barely on?_ “We’re just trying to decide what we want to do for the after-party at the premiere—drinks, games, food, things like that. Channing thinks we should hook up _Just Dance_ , maybe teach us some moves.” He’s betting on more _Magic Mike_ grinding, hips swaying provocatively, and a lot of videos, camera shaky with laughter, that may or may not make it online.

“Sounds fun.” But judging by Colin’s tone, he really doesn’t mean it, and Taron frowns.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, somewhat irritably. His phone pings again, with Halle suggesting a chocolate fountain and Channing exclaiming, _A classic!,_ but ignores it. “Pedro wants a photo booth with props, but I’m guessing that won’t be your style.”

“No,” Colin says, then a bit sharper, “but I suppose I need to…lighten up.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Taron says, still on autopilot, glancing down at a series of foods to include with the fountain, along with a plea from Channing about a fondue fountain. Taron texts, _what kind of cheese?_ , only to glance up and see Colin looking at him, corners of his mouth turned down.

Colin’s tone is carefully diplomatic: “You’d be a little annoyed if you were flown out across the ocean to keep your mouth shut.”

“Sitting there and looking pretty is your specialty,” Taron teases, and he can’t help the pleased thrill when Colin actually laughs.

“I like to think it’s not my only specialty.”

“Nah,” Taron says, grinning, but his playful retort is cut off before it begins, and he and Colin lock eyes before Taron swivels them away, trying not to squirm in his seat. “It’s—you’re pretty good at uh, not giving anything away,” he finishes, wincing at the weak retort. “Spoiler-free. At least we’ll be able to talk more about it on the press tour.”

“Hopefully,” Colin says dryly, but seems to have nothing else to say next.

“Did you have fun?” Taron asks. “At Comic Con?”

Colin’s tone is careful, so much so that Taron almost looks around for a paparazzi lurking in the bushes. “It was all right. Just…jet lag, a bit of sleep deprivation.”

“Yeah,” Taron says, knowing it was more than that, but they’re both past the point where they can exchange small, private jokes in the green room and sleep on their each other’s shoulders in one of their hotel rooms if they timed their exiting just right. “The uh, finger ballet is a bit embarrassing now.”

“It…certainly wasn’t something I’ve seen before,” Colin says, and Taron remembers the comments, the _Colin looks so done with their shit_ and _what the fuck are they doing_ , grimacing. His head had felt light from exhaustion and lack of food, neck cramped from sleeping on the plane, eyes a bit heavy from jet lag, and knew everyone else felt the same way. _After this, I’m taking a nap,_ Halle had joked, and Channing had retorted, _When do we have time for that?_ with the rest of the cast bursting out into tired laughter, except for Colin, who was staring at nothing in particular, Ambien probably winding down.

Taron smiles, but it’s got less and less behind it now. “Well, it was a fun interview,” he says, a bit defensively. “Just more people than usual.”

“Yes,” Colin says, “a lot. But you seemed to be having a good time.”

But it’s almost tainted by the memories of the brief scowls, the shutting down of jokes, the almost-curt responses, the annoyance in Colin’s face in some of the videos and photos.

“I guess,” Taron says thinly. With a lump in his throat, Taron remembers working with Colin. It had been a struggle at first, but quickly evolved, effortless. He’s good at this; he’s forgotten how good they are, how well they can work off each other. “But you didn’t seem to.”

Colin frowns. It’s strange how Taron’s been seeing those more often. “We shouldn’t have wasted so much of that poor reporter’s time. Almost everyone was out of their minds.”

“We were jet-lagged,” Taron says sulkily.

“Interrupting, not answering the questions, phones going off—”

“You know,” Taron interrupts, impatience taking over, “this was a lot better when we were sleeping together.”

At once, he regrets it.

“I thought we agreed to never talk about it,” Colin replies, voice carefully calm. His face betrays nothing, but Taron knows that Colin is restraining a shout, a bitter retort, just as he knows that Colin can’t refuse sweets, manages to drop something on himself while eating, likes to take his time while kissing, plays a little guitar, sings in the shower—

“Don’t worry, I’m not writing a tell-all book like Carrie Fisher,” Taron says viciously. “Though that would make an interesting parallel, wouldn’t it? Younger, new actor and his older, married costar having an affair? The tabloids would eat it alive.”

Colin looks on the verge of signing out. “I hardly think that this is appropriate.”

“Like we were concerned with being _appropriate_? God,” Taron finds himself snapping, soft but sharp. “This would make a great scene for the next movie, won’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” Colin sounds like he’s ready to insert a _fuck_ in there somewhere, but too polite, too much of a pushover to do so. Taron remembers Colin not being afraid to drop the f-bomb, but more often for a joke, something to send people laughing over the epitome of a British gentleman cursing.

_Who knew the debonair Mr. Firth could curse like he’s in London traffic?_

_I do it more than you fucking know. Want me to say it again?_

_Yes, please._

“You know,” Taron says, a bit sarcastically, “Harry and Eggsy next movie. Eggsy returning to the business, Harry going on about whether Eggsy’s wasted in a civilian life, the knock-down-drag argument about whether Eggsy is fucking happy or not.” He stretches out his vowels, puffing out his chest and tilting his chin out defiantly, Eggsy slipping underneath his skin: “I can do what I want with my own life, thanks.”

Colin fires back, sitting up straighter, face and shoulders in Harry Hart mode. “Since when do you do what you really wanted?”

“Fuck you!” Taron practically shouts, and it feels good, good and in character, something he’d never say to Colin, but what brash, impulsive Eggsy would say to an equally-so Harry, tempers evenly matched. He imagines them standing in the new shop, Harry with his eyepatch and bespoke suit and righteous indignation. “You’ve got no right to talk to me like that! I have a good life! I live in a different country, I don't get shot at every day, I'm married to a princess—”

"And once you become king? Will you be able to do that for the rest of your life? The tedium of politics, diplomatic relationships, being photographed everywhere you go?" It’s like a volley of tennis, an easy dance, and Taron finds himself slipping in further and further, caught up, moving in time to the furious rhythm in his heart.

"Yes! _Because_ , Harry, that's what you do when you love someone. You make sacrifices!"

"It was such a huge sacrifice when you walked away from Kingsman. How many people did we have on staff? Four? Three?"

"You told me to go do whatever made me happy!" Taron snaps, both Eggsy and himself shouting at Colin now.

"I wanted you to stay!" Colin roars back, and it’s harder more than ever to tell where Harry and Colin begin and end.

Taron stops.

"Why the fuck didn't you say that, then?"

"Because I have—" Colin stops himself, then turns away, eyes flickering to the bottom of the screen. "No. Forget it. You're right. It's your life. And after this is over, you can go back to it if you’re happy.” He pauses, as if he can’t help himself: “And are you?”

“What?”

“Happy.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. All Taron wants to do now is make peace, say _yes,_ admit it was the right thing. But he could never lie to Colin.

“I don’t know,” Taron admits.

It feels like that moment before Matthew calls, “Scene!,” the tension still in the air, dropping into relaxation when the director gives them a thumbs-up. But there’s no relaxation, not really. Just resignation.

“Fuck,” Taron mutters. “That wasn’t the best idea, was it?”

“No,” Colin says quietly. “But it certainly cleared the air, didn’t it?”

Taron breathes. “I’m sorry about what I said, you know, about comparing us to Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford. We…we were nothing like that.”

“No, we were,” Colin says. “You were young, new to the industry. I was a veteran, older, married, with children. I should have known better.”

“No,” Taron says. “I should have.” He pauses. “I guess it was both our faults.” They’re sitting slumped in their seats now, the fight having gone out of them. “It was just…in the end, it was just too exhaustive. Gutting, even, with us being pulled onto different projects and drifting apart and the fans and the script and…I couldn’t.”

“Yes,” Colin says softly, looking away from the scene. “And it was foolish, even if Livia knew.” His gaze travels down to the floor. Taron can picture that his hands are folded, tightening so they won’t fidget. “She told me you were both good and bad for me.”

“Good for you? How?”

“You made me laugh. You made those days on the Kingsman set some of the happiest days of my life.”

“You…you did, too. Don’t see how you put up with me, though, some puppy dog newbie with stars in his eyes.”

“Put up with you? Taron, I…” Colin takes a deep breath. “I didn’t. I love—loved being with you, even if it did come with anxieties and doubts. I loved our jokes, our banter, our easiness around each other. And even though…”

“Even though what?”

“Well,” Colin says, “I’m surprised you put up with me.”

Taron just stares.

“I don’t play pranks like Channing or horse around like Pedro or nick Matthew’s buggy for a joyride like Ed. I don’t do the selfies or the talk show games or the—the Twitter. You can do so much without me, and I’m proud that you don’t need me—“

“Colin, I…”

Taron remembers. Colin only had him at Comic Con as part of the original cast and a British actor. They’d hung out together on and off the set—with Colin at the edges. Jeff would send them all howling at his wry jokes and impersonations of The Dude and anecdotes. Pedro would tweet and take selfies and joke like it was going out of style. Channing would burst into spontaneous dancing or terrible Texan accents and join in the prank war. Halle would make the occasional joke and banter with the rest of them. Ed would bring out CatchPhrase or start a drinking game on the slow nights. Even Mark would treat them all to a round at the pub—

 _I do need you._ “You’re not a showboat, but that’s not a bad thing. I can always come to you for advice, for relaxation…”

“But never for more than that,” Colin says. “Every…time with you, getting caught was always at the back of our minds—ferrying each other across London, disguising ourselves, risking hotels, texts in encrypted apps—” _Is the door locked? Curtains drawn? Shower running?_ “It wasn’t good for either of us, in the long run, except for the first movie.” His tone purposely turns joking. “Our chemistry, really, made the film.”

“The fans certainly noticed.” Taron sighs. “They’re going to pick something up in the movie. Something different between us.” Again, like instinct: “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” Colin says softly.

“We had to end it.”

“Yes.”

“It’s better like this,” Taron says, then amends, “now.” But it falls flat. All he wants to do is take it back.

What, everything? No. Not even if it would make things easier.

_This is happening. Taron hopes Colin doesn’t give a huge speech, and damn him, damn him for being old-fashioned enough to not do this over text. Damn him for sitting him down like this and making him stay still, like being paralyzed in a nightmare._

_He can’t say that he hasn’t known for a while that they’re not who they used to be. But the actual confirmation, the finality of it kicks him in the stomach. The speech, which Colin seems to have prepared beforehand, is a blur of meaningless words, something about doing both of them right and being their own people and probably some lines he's looked up online. Or from movies. Or perhaps Livia helped._

_No, he thinks. It's Colin's original thoughts. Nothing hurts more._

_He realizes that Colin is staring at him unexpectedly, face in open dread about having to start this all over, to clarify, to say again that they needed to end this._

_“Yeah,” Taron finally says. Might as well get this whole thing over with. “Um. I’ve been thinking about it, too.”_

_Colin nods, clearly relieved to have Taron take the reins. Neither of them have touched the tea or biscuits._

_“We can still be friends,” Taron says, sort of stupidly. He’s never really broken it off officially with anyone; most of the time, they’d just drifted apart and ghosted each other._

_But Colin’s not like that._

_“I really hope we can,” Colin says sincerely. “I don’t want to lose anything between us.” He pauses again. “You deserve to be happy, Taron. On your terms. With nothing holding you back.”_

_Taron can only nod numbly. He knows Livia will be home soon, that their reconciliation will be eased with a marriage of a few decades and kids, that there always was going to be a time to say goodbye._

_“Yeah,” he says. It’s all he can say._

_That should be it, but just as Taron’s beginning to stand up, preparing to leave, their lips meet._

_It’s everything they can’t say._

_Colin is the first to pull away, eyes slightly widened. “I’m sorry.” He sounds breathless. “I’m sorry.”_

_“No,” Taron reassures, and the next thing is the most honest he’s been since he walked through that door. “There’s no need to be.”_

“I have to go now,” Colin says at last. “Good-bye, Taron. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Taron says. He’s said all he can. “See you.”

And he signs off.

**Author's Note:**

> My customary apologies to Colin Firth and Taron Egerton


End file.
